Exodia (3 page)

“
Run,” I say to the boy. He
cringes as if he’s equally afraid of me yet ready to strike now
that he’s armed with sticks. I’m impatient with him.
“Go!”

That blue elbow connects with a sudden
force against my head, followed by a fist that finds my jaw. I
stumble back, fall, scrabble to my feet. I hear a click, an
unmistakable sound if you’ve been instructed in Suppression
fighting. It’s a slow second that passes. He’s thinking he has the
upper hand. He’s thinking I don’t know this style of
fight.

He’s wrong.

He lunges for me and I step aside,
swinging as I do, and I connect with unbelievable force. My fist to
his temple. Just as my trainers have taught me.

I hear the Red kid gasp. He hurls the
sticks, turns and runs; somehow he knows instinctively what I’ve
done.

The man’s body is crumpled on the
ground, his rage-clenched face now slack. He doesn’t move. I look
in every direction, but see no one.

I wait a second or two and then touch
his elbow, grab both arms, and drag him to the bushes. Under the
bushes.

I feel for a pulse. There is
none.

I look for the weapon. There is
none.

I finish hiding him by pushing him
farther under the shrubs. The ground rumbles under my
feet.

Chapter 2 The Secret City

From the first page of the
Ledger:

A priest from the Mid-land
had seven daughters and they came to draw water.

KASSANDRA LOOKED AROUND the sky. The
late afternoon sun hesitated above the west horizon. She could see
a three-quarter moon plain as day and wondered if she would ever be
able to predict the future and know things just by looking up. Her
father did it all the time. He saw things in the stars and tried to
teach her, but Kassandra was without a clue. Sheep. That’s all she
knew. All she could figure out. And she certainly would never have
the chance to meet any boys if she stayed here.

“
Thinking about leaving?” It
was the twin, Deandra, who spoke. She walked up to Kassandra’s
right side; the other twin lagged two steps behind.

“
Yeah, like that was real
hard for you to guess.”

The quiet twin, Marcela, parked herself
on a rock and listened to her sisters.

Deandra spoke again. “I guess … I mean
it’s more than a guess … I know that you’ll be gone when you’re
eighteen.”

“
That’s forever from now,”
Kassandra sighed and nudged Marcela over so she could share the
rock with her. She didn’t argue with Deandra. Her sister had a
talent for guessing the future as if she had a crystal ball, her
dad’s star chart, or a mind-reading ability. If Deandra said she’d
be out of here by eighteen then it was probably so. But Kassandra
hoped to meet some boys sooner than that, any boy, even a Blue boy.
There were no Red males her age and the older ones had already gone
south to Exodia looking for work or north to join the rebels. Life
in a small, nameless town was tedious, mind-numbing, and
dreary.

Kassandra rose up and used her
shepherd’s staff, just a long, sturdy oak branch, to tap a
belligerent ram back into the fold. She had to herd the sheep back
from the south slope where they had trimmed the new spring grasses
down to nubs. Another sister, Katie, eleven months younger, sat off
to the side cradling a newborn lamb. Kassandra leaned on her staff
for a moment and watched her sister. Katie continually frowned when
a smile was called for, griped when she should have kept silent,
and complained about anything and nothing. But she kept the closest
watch on the lambs. The twins did nothing to help, content to weave
daisy chains. But that was better than sitting inside their crazy
house with the youngest three sisters and listening to their mother
drill them on useless grammar exceptions and math problems and
Red/Blue rules.

“
Better get the sheep down
to the pond,” Kassandra said. She whistled for Katie’s attention.
All four girls spread out behind the flock and worked their way
forward.

The sheep moved ahead eagerly at first
then began to scatter.

“
What’s wrong with them?”
Katie shouted.

The ground shook.

“
Earthquake!”

The tremors increased, the same tremors
that shook under Dalton’s feet many miles away. The twins clutched
at one another and Kassandra fell to the grass. She looked
homeward, to the valley below, in time to see the giant wind
turbine that had worked tirelessly for nearly a century break apart
and topple. The hundred foot long glass fiber and metal blades
landed in the pond sending water, algae, and mud splattering all
the way back towards the house. The great base of the windmill lay
on its side like an uprooted tree.

Kassandra stood up with her
arms out for balance. The earth tired of its shaking and she
lowered her hands. Quakes had been rising in frequency year by
year, but none had been this strong. Not to have their turbine
anymore meant something epic, she was sure, and not just because
they would lose their electrical power. She had always thought of
the structure as a beacon for God to see them. It waved its blades
like children calling out for attention:
Here we are. Remember us.

The bleating was deafening and
Kassandra did the only thing that was sure to calm the flock. She
began to sing. It was a song of comfort and hope, but sprinkled
throughout were words and phrases that none of the girls
understood. Katie joined in and then the twins harmonized. The
sheep were well accustomed to the tune and hurried of their own
accord to tangle themselves around the girls.

More slowly than usual they herded the
flock home, far north of where Dalton dealt with a different
catastrophe.

* * *

I trip over a broken curb and fall to
my knees as the earth trembles one last time. I catch myself with
my hands, scraping them against pieces of pavement and rock. My
belt sacks dangle to the ground and I wish I’d filled them with
food, water at least. My mouth is desperate for
something.

I stay in this dog-like position for
maybe ten seconds, trying to swallow, waiting for my heart to
figure out it can’t keep up this hummingbird pace.

I will not think about what I’ve done.
I will not dwell on the man’s face. I will not remember the ring on
his finger, the patch on his shirt, the anger and surprise on his
face. Or his blue tattoo.

I’ve done nothing wrong. I defended the
kid.

I see raindrops on the earth, only a
few. I wipe my eyes and rise. It is dark and I have been running
without direction for too long. People have left the streets,
tucked themselves into homes and huts and hovels, and I’m alone. I
paw through a belt sack for my knife because I know I’m lost and I
know there are wild dogs.

I find a street sign and read the
fading letters: Pemberton. Somehow I’m at the edge of the slum. I’m
sure because the streets are grouped somewhat alphabetically. I’ll
have to weave my way back. I could call Jamie or the capitol guard
post, but I’d rather not have anyone see me like this and guess
what I’ve done. My mother is off on a mission to find a bride for
someone–she’ll be unreachable. Besides, the sun has set and my
solar phone, though one of the best refurbished ones available,
probably won’t have enough power for more than a minute. I may need
that minute later.

I force myself to walk. There’s enough
light left to see my way. I’ve ridden through the slum at night,
bumping along, staring at the poorly lit homes, holding my breath
against the stench, ignoring mother’s happy voice as she chattered
about another party, rally, or dinner as we returned from some
political mission outside the capitol. But now I’m accustomed to
the smells. I see the lights for what they are–oil lamps, candles,
solar bulbs–and in the homes where windows are not broken or
curtained I can see families. It only takes a second or two in an
armored truck to pass each home, but I spend twenty or thirty
seconds now walking by and I get a chance to see the Reds, really
see them as people instead of, well, servants or slaves or
criminals.

Criminals.

I walk faster. I can’t think about …
the man I murdered. I think about Lydia instead. I want to see her
again. I have questions to ask her. I’ll have to practice, memorize
what I want to say, and rehearse how I want to ask. There is no
sense to any of this. My destiny. A killing mandate. A prophecy. A
dead twin brother.

I make it to the B streets distracted
by my rambling thoughts. I cut across the field and look for the
spot where I, and the thief Barrett, had climbed over. The guard
said he was spying for Ronel’s people. I study the spot he had used
to gain entry and exit from the usually secure capitol grounds. It
doesn’t make sense if he was a spy. I walk along the fence and find
a dozen places where he could have gained better access without
being seen. Something occurs to me: perhaps he used the place he
did precisely because sooner or later I would see him.

I walk away from the fence to get
another perspective of my home. At night it doesn’t look much
different than the dilapidated dwellings I just passed, only
bigger. I feel no tender pull to return home. In fact, in this
moment, as I finger the blade of my knife, the only emotion that
stirs is a longing for my nanny. I haven’t seen her in eight years,
yet she is the one I know I could confess to.

I hear a growl that makes me stop
mid-stride. My head and hands and feet freeze. My eyes track around
the shadows. Before I get to the edge of my peripheral vision I see
the dog. He’s a stone’s throw to my right. If I charge the fence
and leap up I’ll make it. He takes a single step and his throaty
rumble is only slightly louder than the pounding in my chest. I
hope I’m only imagining the slow advance of other dogs in the
distance. Stalking shadows. Though a pack of wild dogs tearing me
to shreds seems like justice for the crime I committed.

The growling intensifies, grows deeper
and my fingers tighten on the knife. I judge the distance. I need
to run.

I need to run now, before he launches
himself, knocks me down, and locks his fangs on my neck. My knife
is only a few inches long, not good for much more than peeling an
orange or picking at my dirty nails.

His front leg moves up. I’m wasting
precious seconds. My legs move before I consciously command them. I
run full out toward the nearest section of fence, ten feet closer
than Barrett’s spot to cross. The wild dog lunges, crosses the
distance between us in an instant. I jump too soon and catch the
links lower than I should, but I clamber up a couple feet as the
dog hits the fence, and his hard body sends a quiver along the
wires. I almost lose my grip. His claws reach the metal inches
below my heels and I crab up a little higher. I transfer my knife
to my mouth so I can get a better hold and climb to the
top.

The barbs are fortified with razor wire
here so I cannot climb over. The dog has yet to bark. His growling
gurgles with the saliva that drips off his fangs in anticipation.
No other dogs have joined him. He is a lone killer.

Like me.

I inch along to the right until I make
it to the broken barbs. I pull myself over, but I’m reluctant to
descend. The dog is right below me. He doesn’t know that his fangs
and claws won’t reach through the links. I’m equally unsure.
Finally I jump out and away, roll on the ground, and pop up, knife
ready. We stare at one another, two killers.

His eyes move slowly from my feet to my
head as if he’s memorizing me. And then he lopes away without even
a yip or final growl, his tail listing to the left, broken or maybe
chewed off.

I put my hands on my knees and bend
over until my breathing slows. I straighten slowly and stash my
knife back in my belt sack.

* * *

Curled under a worn bed sheet in the
room she shared with Katie, Kassandra lay awake listening to her
parents’ worried voices. They weren’t too far from her open window,
passing by with lanterns, off to inspect the fallen monster
together. Her father had no idea what to do with the windmill
blades or how to solve the problem of water and electricity. Her
mother’s tone grew lighter as her father stopped talking
altogether. Her mom was full of optimism: everything would work
out; they had been through worse; they could build
another.